


Cigarettes

by HumanError



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brave John, Caring Sherlock, Death, Dying John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sherlock, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt, Kisses, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Proposals, Smoking, Supportive Mycroft, Supportive Sherlock, Terminal Cancer, Unilock, engagements, major character illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3919726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumanError/pseuds/HumanError
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's ridiculous, he thinks now as he continues to follow the patterns of smoke, how someone can affect your life so drastically. Sherlock turns his attention back to the sky, notices a blackbird flying above him. Freedom.</p><p>The pinks and reds and yellows are beginning to fade, now turning into deep shades of blue. Checking his watch he sees that the time is nearing 8:30pm, the stars are beginning to show themselves. Sherlock takes the cigarette between his fingers, exhaling one last time before destroying the fire, rubbing the tip of the cigarette into the grass beside him. So easy to obliterate.</p><p>John never did like him smoking but, he supposes, that doesn't matter now. He's not here anymore. Why does it even matter?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cigarettes

He sits there, beneath the tree that they decided would be their spot, and gazes out over the tranquil expanse of water that has taken on an orange tint as it reflects the beautiful colours of the sunset. A single cigarette rests on top of his bottom lip, held in place by the upper lip which John dubbed as Sherlock's 'Cupid Bow'. Embers of ash crumble off the edge of the cigarette, burning out before they have a chance to land on Sherlock's trousers.

The young man sighs, tilting his head back as a cloud of smoke escapes his mouth, dancing as it makes its way up into the air before vanishing from sight completely. The grey is a stark contrast against the pastels of the sky, disturbing the calmness as it poisons the sky with its fumes. Sherlock cannot help but laugh.  _How very telling._

He wants to scream at the top of his lungs. Interrupt the silence that surrounds him. There isn't anyone to stop him, after all, not since John left. Well, he says left. John didn't leave. He was taken.

* * *

John pressed forward, balling his fists into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt as he locked their lips together. The other man had his hands resting against John's hips, rubbing them up and down John's thighs, touching him wherever he could. "John," he managed to mumble between kisses, breathing heavily as the man on top of him began to unbutton his shirt. "John, stop." 

John paused, watched Sherlock as he took John's hand in his own, touching delicate little kisses to his knuckles. "We need to talk." 

"I can't." John managed, inhaling before he pulled away and sat beside Sherlock on their bed, dropping his head into his hands and releasing a sob. Immediately Sherlock was on the floor in front of his boyfriend, not bothering to re-do the buttons on his shirt, and holding onto John's wrists, lowering them from his face.

"Hey, John."Sherlock held onto him, eyes locking onto John's. The detective had been worrying about John for weeks. He hadn't been his usual self, always seemed down. Originally he had thought it would be a passing thing but John only seemed to be getting worse and worse. "John?"

"I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm dying."

Surely he'd misheard what John had said. _Surely._ "What?"

"I said I'm dying."

It was as if a car had hit him with full force, not bothering to slow down before colliding with him. The damage was beyond repair.

"No."

"Sherlock..." And all it took was that one little word, the two syllables of Sherlock's name which he had heard John say a thousand times before, for him to finally break. Sherlock Holmes knew that his whole life was about to change.

* * *

 It's ridiculous, he thinks now as he continues to follow the patterns of smoke, how someone can affect your life so drastically. Sherlock turns his attention back to the sky, notices a blackbird flying above him. Freedom.

The pinks and reds and yellows are beginning to fade, now turning into deep shades of blue. Checking his watch he sees that the time is nearing 8:30pm, the stars are beginning to show themselves. Sherlock takes the cigarette between his fingers, exhaling one last time before destroying the fire, rubbing the tip of the cigarette into the grass beside him. So easy to obliterate.

John never did like him smoking but, he supposes, that doesn't matter now. He's not here anymore. Why does it even matter?

* * *

"What are you going to do about university?" Sherlock asked, a tremble to his voice as he spoke to his partner. After the initial breakdown as he told Sherlock the news, he had managed to calm himself down.

"I'll go until I'm too weak. I want to try and remain as normal as possible." John shifted in his bed, turning his head so that he was facing Sherlock. Sherlock, who up until that point had been completely nonplussed, felt a tear threaten to spill over. How could this happen? Why him? What did John do to deserve something as utterly awful as this? There was no reason as to why this horrendous disease chose to live off John, thrive on his life as he only became weaker. Why was that fair?

* * *

John absolutely loved that spot. No one else ever came there and he always thought that it was the perfect escape for him and Sherlock. It was away from the noise of London, away from fellow students, away from reality. Usually they would drive there on the weekends on Sherlock's motorcycle, not a care in the world. Just the two of them. That was all that mattered.

Sherlock thinks back on it now, remembers how happy John had been when they first came here together. He adored swimming in the lake in the summer, always eager to encourage Sherlock into getting in the water with him. When Sherlock finally swum with him, a smile so gorgeous, so beautiful painted itself onto his face. Sherlock will never forget that smile, the way his eyes glistened, the way his skin shone with the sun was beating down on it. No, he could never forget that. Ever.

Now, though, all he sees is the way the water stays still, the only movement being when the breeze gently blows against it. He will not step into the water again.

* * *

 John rested his chin atop Sherlock's head, wrapping his arms around the larger man's frame.  He pulled the duvet around them, enclosing the two of them in the warmth and comfort of the material. "I'm going to stay with you for as long as I can." It was a promise.

"I should hope so," Sherlock chuckled, but it was without humour. There wasn't going to be any humour for the foreseeable future, as far as Sherlock was concerned. Before John could continue speaking, Sherlock carried on. "How long?"

"I don't know." Sherlock glanced at him, questioning John's statement. He waited, willing John to elaborate. "I didn't want to find out. It would make this whole thing all that more real."

"Right."

"I really am sorry-" John began, but before he could finish, Sherlock turned his head, capturing John's lips with his own.

"Don't-"

"Sherlock..."

"Please, John." Sherlock cupped his hands around John's face, brushing his fingers over the tender skin of his cheeks, gently caressing the nape of John's neck. The duvet became removed as Sherlock adjusted his position, straddling John's hips as he continued to kiss his partner. The two of them remained silent as Sherlock moved over John's body, gripping onto the cream coloured fabric of John's jumper and quickly discarding it to the side. 

He thought they'd have a lifetime together. Just him and John, without a worry. Never did he realise how wrong he would be.

In one swift movement Sherlock had successfully divested them both of all of their clothing until they were naked, both overwhelmed with the situation but neither one willing to make any more comments on the matter. After all, what else was there to say?

* * *

 "Sherlock..." The young man hears his name being spoken softly, by a man who he had not expected to see in this location. His feet begin to move, carefully treading along the grass until he reaches the bank, and perches down next to Sherlock who still has the cigarette butt clenched between his thumb and finger.

 "Come back." The man says, voice masked, emotions hidden. _Surprise_ , Sherlock thinks,  _nothing changes._

"What for?"

"You know what for."

"Since when have you cared?"

"Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock, I have always cared for my little brother." Mycroft sighs, electing to pick at a piece of grass besides Sherlock's foot.

"Well, isn't that good to know, considering that you,  _dearest brother,_ have always told me that caring is not an advantage." The younger brother flicks the cigarette into the lake, watching as it descends into the depths of the water.

"Caring for someone when it is not necessary is definitely not an advantage. When you began your acquaintanceship with John-"

"Please do spare me the 'I told you so talk'. As you can see, I am really not up to the idea of having this conversation." Sherlock scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief as he listens to his brother. After all that has happened in the past couple of days, did Mycroft really deem it wise to make judgements on his and John's relationship?"

Mycroft exhales, repeating his sentence again. "When you began your acquaintanceship with John Watson, I did not believe it would be at all beneficial to you, Sherlock."

"Yes, do tell me something I do not already know." Sherlock can feel the anger slowly beginning to rise within him, days of pent up grief suddenly beginning to take the better of him, urging him to do something that he will most surely regret.

"You fell in love with him so quickly." It is not a question. It is an acknowledgement. "I doubted him, Sherlock. This man, so ordinary, so plain, so  _normal._ Not at all like you. But I saw how much he meant to you, how your face would light up at the mere mention of his name. Love, I always thought, was a confusing subject. All of the passion that two people can build together creates this incredible cacophony of desire and destruction, screaming at you all the time whilst you maintain your relationship. Yet, you elect to ignore those screams, choosing to follow through with your heart rather than your head, right up until the end. You cared for John, Sherlock, and it has only made the pain and the grief worse for you."

Sherlock doesn't reply, afraid that his voice may betray him. When Mycroft realises that he is not going to talk he stands, touching his hand to Sherlock's shoulder. "Brother, I cannot tell you whether or not the pain gets any better. But please, don't let this destroy you. John would never have wanted that."

* * *

John ran his hand over his head, stroking his fingers through his hair but only to pull it back and find clumps of blonde resting in his palm. A couple of strands drifted to his feet as he retracted his hand, cascading gracefully to the ground. The medical student stared at his hand, not quite willing to register what exactly had happened.

"John?" Sherlock turned the corner from the kitchen into the living room, two cups of coffee held firmly in his hands. When he saw what the other man was looking at he immediately set the mugs down on the coffee table, striding over to John and removing the hair from his hand. "Do you want to go through with it?" John didn't need to question what Sherlock was on about- they had already discussed it.

"Yes."

"Ok."

* * *

Sherlock listens as his brother strides away, no longer bothering to remain quiet as he takes his steps. The wind begins to pick up and Sherlock feels cold, so bloody cold. He pulls his coat tighter around his body, flipping the collar up and he can hear him, hear John's voice laughing at him.  _You being all mysterious with your cheekbones, turning your collar up so you look cool._ I don't do that.  _Yeah, you do._ You're right, I do.  _I wouldn't have it any other way._

 Perching on the kitchen stool that Sherlock dragged into the bathroom, John looked at himself in the mirror. His face looked gaunt, skin pale, nasal cannula firmly in place. Beside him was his portable oxygen tank, the one that he carried with him anywhere and everywhere. He hated that thing, hated the looks that he got when he wheeled it along to his uni lectures. 

Sherlock stood behind him, placed his left hand against John's shoulder. John lifted his own hand up and intertwined their fingers together, both men looking directly into the mirror but both reaching each other's eyes. 

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked; he knew that John had already agreed to this. That didn't stop him from asking if he was certain.

"We may as well get it over and done with." John replied, never once taking his gaze away from the mirror. 

The buzzing of the shaver could be heard as Sherlock drew it through John's hair, taking it away before the drugs could attack his body properly and humiliate him. It would be his decision.

John remained silent as he witnessed his remaining hair fall from his head. Never once did he say a word.

* * *

The detective pulls out his phone, looks at the picture of him and John that he had set as his wallpaper. They were at their spot, like usual. The lake was in the background, sparkling as the sun beamed down on it and created a beautiful creation of distorted pictures. Sherlock couldn't help but smile.  _We were so happy,_ he thinks.

He can see that he has 6 missed calls from is brother, two from his mother. There are, in total, 13 unread messages. He doesn't read them.

* * *

 "I want to buy beanies." John declared one morning, waking up to find Sherlock already awake, sat at his desk and dressed as immaculately as always. He wore one of his suit jackets aswell as a black dress shirt, the one that made John absolutely melt. His boyfriend was so gorgeous.

"John, you look ridiculous in beanies."

"I'd rather look ridiculous than have a cold head." John giggled, adjusting his cannula as he continued to look at Sherlock.

"What are you looking at?"  

"My boyfriend who I could ravish right this instant." The laptop made a beeping sound as Sherlock sent off an e-mail, before he swiveled on his chair to peer at John.

"You look like you could fall asleep right this instant."

"You know, I probably could. But I want some beanies first. And a kiss." The detective rolled his eyes and stood up, making his way over to John before planting a tender kiss to his lips.

"I'm going to reiterate this, John. You look absolutely ridiculous in beanies."

"I think I need a style change."

"With beanies?"

"With beanies." Sherlock shook his head, laughing at his partner as he stood up. Beanies it was.

* * *

 Feeling inside his coat pocket, Sherlock touches the lighter in it. He takes it out, clicking down with his thumb and watching as the fire ignites, a new light in the ever growing darkness. He remains mesmerised as he watches the flame flicker, the colours merging together to create once singular burst of luminescence. 

* * *

"John, I need you to stay awake with me. The ambulance is on its way, ok?" Sherlock kneeled beside John, encouraging him to try and just  _breathe._ He panicked, totally unprepared for John's sudden collapse. They had been walking along the university grounds when John had started to become breathless. But before he knew it, John's legs had given way and he had just fallen, desperate for breath and struggling. 

"That's it John," Sherlock continued, helping to prop John up so his back was against the wooden legs of the bench. "There we go."

* * *

The sound of an owl hooting in a nearby tree distracts Sherlock from the flame, causing him to momentarily jump in his spot. He releases a gasp as he flinches, dropping the lighter into his lap as he does so. Sherlock cards his hand through his curls, ruffling them up slightly. The sky is now black, dark clouds beginning to engulf the stars, another darkness taking over. 

What was the point? Honestly, what was the point in all of this? 

* * *

 It was three weeks after John's fall that he proposed.

John sat on the sofa sipping at a glass of water. Wrapped around him was, not only a blanket, but Sherlock aswell. The two of them had decided to have a Lord of the Rings trilogy, considering they were John's favourite films. However, they only managed to get through The Fellowship of the Ring and half of The Two Towers before John started to become uncomfortable, tiredness getting the better of him. He wasn't going to let that stop him.

"Sherlock?" He asked, nudging Sherlock's elbow. Sherlock shifted from his position in John's lap and sat up, looking with concern at John. "Don't worry, I'm fine." John reassured, patting Sherlock on the thigh before setting down the glass on a coaster on the table.

"Sherlock, I was thinking..." he smiled, eyes shifting downwards in embarrassment. 

"Yes..."

"I'm not going to get any better." It was the truth, a fact. Sherlock frowned, clearly unwilling to acknowledge the obvious.

"I know J-"

"Which is why I want to do this now, rather than later." John coughed, tapping Sherlock on the bum to get him to move from him completely. Once Sherlock had moved, scooting to the furthest cushion of the sofa, John untangled himself from the blanket and reached his hand into his pocket.

"Sherlock," John spoke, lowering himself onto one knee as he did so. He released a nervous chuckle, which soon turned into another cough. As soon as he had composed himself, John continued to speak. "Shit. Ok. I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

The younger man felt a blush rising to his cheeks. Since when did he blush?

"I love you, Sherlock. So bloody much. Now, I never thought myself to be overly sentimental but, since meeting you, my life has changed completely. We both know... yeah, we both know that this year is only going to get worse. It's fucking awful and I know that in the end, it'll be you who has to deal with all of the emotions that go through losing someone, not me." John brought his hand out to Sherlock, shaking slightly as he clasped his fingers into his partner's. The other man squeezed John's, encouraging him to continue on.

"Sherlock, I want to thankyou for absolutely everything. It's a lot for any 23 year old to deal with but you...you've managed it. When I'm gone I know that you'll be able to cope. It'll be hard, bloody hell if the situation had have been reversed I don't know how I would have handled this, but you've been amazing. So, if you'll let me do this." His heart began to race and his breathing became slightly erratic but by God was John going to do this.

"Sherlock Holmes." The box felt heavy in his hands as he opened it, presenting the simple yet gorgeous golden band that resided in there. "Would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?"

He doesn't need to think of his answer. How could there be any other answer?

"It would be my privilege." And it would. It absolutely would.

* * *

The ring still sits on his left hand, still feels heavy. It turns out that John had been planning the proposal for weeks, had even spoken with Sherlock's parents to ask for his hand in marriage. Of course they agreed. It wasn't only Mycroft who had acknowledged the connection between John and himself.

Sherlock reflects back on the night of the proposal, remembers the sheer amount of joy he felt at something, just  _something_ turning out for the better. They had kissed each other, hands roaming along each others' bodies, touching, tasting. It was easy to forget about all the bad that had happened, what was going to happen. Because they were happy, so bloody happy and that was all that mattered. That night, it was just the two of them, no thought of the illness, of the treatments, of the inevitable. Just two men, in love and recently engaged. That was it. Nothing more.

Sherlock twists the rings, the metal cold to his touch. There are two there now. Exactly the same.

* * *

John had been sleeping on the sofa all day, exhausted from his most recent chemotherapy session. At the beginning of his diagnosis John had agreed to go through with the treatment to prolong his life for as long as he could. The sound of the door creaking shut woke John from his sleep. "Sherlock?" He called out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The red beanie (Sherlock's favourite beanie, although he was reluctant to admit) had fallen from his head and landed on to the floor, beside his oxygen tank. "Sherlock?"

This time, the detective strolled into the living room carrying his books and laptop bag. He looked absolutely knackered.

"Did I wake you?" Sherlock asked, setting the books down on the table. Upon further inspection, John noticed a black bruise forming against Sherlock's cheek aswell as dried blood crusted to his lip.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Oh nothing."

"Sherlock."

"Some morons thought it'd be hilarious to try on provoke me on the way to the lecture. I retaliated, of course, which led to this." Sherlock pointed towards his face before shaking his head slightly. "But that doesn't matter. How are you?"

"Jesus, again?" John began to sit up, albeit with difficulty, but before he could move any further Sherlock was right beside him. pressing his shoulders down so he was laying back against the pillows. Sherlock picked the beanie up and placed it on John's head before speaking again.

"I'm pulling out of university."

"What?"

"John, you really don't need me to explain why." Resting his elbows on his knees, Sherlock continued. "It only makes sense."

"Sherlock..."

"I want to be able to spend as much time as I can with you. Leaving university is the only way I can do that. Not to mention that you are only going to become weaker and will need fulltime care. I hate the thought of leaving you, John and it is because of university that I have to. Now, I am quite capable of finishing this chemistry degree and I do intend to, one day, but not in the near future. I know you don't want to be hearing this because you hate the thought of pulling me back but honestly, this is the only logical solution. Don't look at me like that John, you know it's true." Sherlock sighed, hanging his head into his arms. Everything was getting to him at the moment.

"I've still got time-"

"You don't know that!" The younger man shouted, raising his voice at his fiancé. And that's when he lost it, all of the emotions finally hitting him. "It's fucking killing me, John. Knowing I can't do anything to help you. Knowing that any day could be your last. I don't want to waste this time at bloody university. I want to be with you and the only thing preventing me from doing that is that ridiculous place. I didn't want you to know how much this is hurting me John but it is. It's hurting so bloody much. I can't bear the thought of you dying, I don't want to think about it! But I can't help it because it's a fact and I can't just  _ignore_ the facts when they're right in right of me. Every day you're changing. Struggling to breathe, collapsing, feeling exhausted. You've lost so much weight in the past six weeks, especially since you stopped attending uni."

John was left speechless, unable to comprehend what Sherlock was saying to him. He knew it was true but accepting that it was true was an entirely different story. Hearing Sherlock's thoughts on the matter was truly and utterly heartbreaking.

"John, we both knew that you were going to leave university when the illness started becoming too much. And you have. I can't risk the chance of you being hospitalised again because I wasn't at home to help you when you needed me. I just can't. So let me stay here. I'll take some more cases from Scotland Yard that I can solve at home to try and earn us some money. Please John."

John remained silent, unsure of what to say. What could he say? It's not as if he could just make himself stop being ill, make everything just go away. He wished he could. There was no doubt about that. But he couldn't and that was a fact, one fact that  _he_ couldn't overlook either. Neither one of them knew how much time passed between them, both men remaining silent as they digested what had been said. Eventually, John found his voice again.

"Ok." He said. "Ok."

* * *

 

Sherlock finds himself standing up, walking a couple of metres to the edge of the water. A small wooden walkway goes into the lake and Sherlock steps onto it, eyes never leaving the water. He places his hands in his pocket yet again, feeling for his packet of cigarettes and pulling another one out, lighting it immediately.

* * *

 

It is only a few days later when John sits Sherlock down beside him on the sofa, having their first conversation about the arrangements.

"I don't have enough money to pay for a funeral." John said, fiddling with his cannula.

"You don't have to worry about that." Sherlock assured him, wrapping his arm around John's shoulder and laying them down together.

"I do though."

"You don't. Plus, I wouldn't expect you to pay for your own funeral." John shrugged, a sadness looming over him.

"It's not like I have parents anymore who can pay for it."

"John, like I said, you don't have to worry. When the time comes, I will sort something about. I promise." The time comes sooner than he thinks.

* * *

The ash falls into the lake, floating on the surface of the water before drifting away. Sherlock tries not to look at it, but fails, becoming mesmerised by the insignificant little pieces of grey.  _Stupid,_ he thinks.  _Absolutely stupid._

* * *

He is so ill. "I'm phoning an ambulance." Sherlock says but John doesn't reply, remains focussed on his breathing. Sherlock dials the number quickly, reciting words that he has said many times before. John Watson. 24. Terminal lung cancer. There's more to be said. He doesn't want to say them, yet he has to.

***

Mycroft answers on the first ring. "Brother."

"He's dying." Sherlock says, panic that he has never heard of before making itself evident by the way he speaks.

"You've known that for a long time, Sherlock."

"He's  _dying,_ Mycroft." The elder Holmes knows in an instant what he means and immediately he is grabbing his coat and getting into one of his cars. Sherlock needs him, more than ever.

***

The pneumonia came on within a few hours. One minute he was feeling as well as he could be, the next he was struggling beyond measures. Sherlock is at the hospital with him when he falls unconscious, not too long after his arrival.

He is not going to wake up again.

At 18:37pm on the 6th of June, John Watson passes away as Sherlock holds him, supporting him as he takes his final few breaths. He is not in pain. Not anymore.

* * *

The young man smokes his final cigarette at the lake, watching as the smoke returns back to the sky once again. John didn't like him smoking. He walks back along the wooden beams, flickering the lighter one last time before discarding it at the water's edge.

He has a funeral to arrange, laying John to rest one last time.


End file.
